[Another pitch, and it's a high fly foul. So, the score with the Dodgers is tied at four to four.
No suspense on the scoreboard. He swings the bat. This young man has the ability to strike the other side out again.]
Lying in bed, his consciousness hazy and heavy, Steve Rogers's eyes moved, then slowly opened.
The voice by his ear sounded somewhat familiar. It seemed to be commentating on a baseball game. His memory was like frosted glass, so blurred and unclear.
Click.
Steve sat up in bed, still a little lost for a moment.
The room was not large. An old-fashioned desk lamp sat on the bedside table, its orange-yellow glow not very bright.
In the corner, a cabinet stood against the wall, and the radio on top had a strong sense of age.
[He bends, pitches, swing, a line drive, over Grimson.
Rizzo scores, Reiser runs to third, Durocher is waiting to take over for him, they're about to make the exchange, but they're holding steady.]
The radio kept playing. Steve rubbed his forehead, the sense of wrongness overwhelming.
Click.
"Good morning."
The door opened, and a woman with wavy curls, wearing a dark green dress, walked in from outside. She glanced at the watch on her wrist and smiled.
"Actually, I should say good afternoon."
"My God. Where am I?" His memory felt as if a huge piece were missing. Steve asked.
"You're in a post-operative recovery room in New York."
The woman across from him smiled with perfect composure, but the sound of the radio made Steve's expression unnatural.
"Where am I really?"
"I don't quite understand what you mean."
The woman's smile grew somewhat uneasy, and she still wanted to muddle through, but Steve stared into her eyes and exposed her lie.
"This